


a hymn called faith and misery

by anyastasia



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dave | Technoblade and Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Dave | Technoblade-centric, Family Bonding, Mentions of Death, my first dream smp fic!! woot woot, written on discord
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:19:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28081551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anyastasia/pseuds/anyastasia
Summary: rage thrummed through techno’s veins. wilbur wasn’t going to win. only techno could win. he glared up at his brother, jealousy and envy and fury running through him. head so clouded with emotion, he couldn’t think straight. his only thoughts were those of BLOOD BLOOD MORE BLOOD NEED BLOOD BRUISES BRUISES MAKE HIM BLEED MAKE HIM CRY MAKE HIM SUFFER.the next thing he knew, the cold hilt of his iron sword, summoned by his will, hit his palm, and he was on his feet and running for wilbur.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, No Romantic Relationships - Relationship, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 188





	a hymn called faith and misery

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! this is my first fic for the dream smp :) i hope u enjoy! title is from holiday by green day
> 
> disclaimer: this fic is about the CHARACTERS of dream smp, not the actual people. if this crosses any lines then it shall be deleted!

play nice, phil had said. don’t go too rough. no one likes getting hurt.

techno was only six, but he liked getting hurt. he already had scars from scuffles and wrestles with wilbur - his knees were permanently red and raw, his elbows constantly flaking off scabs. times when there weren’t bandaids crisscrossing his cheeks were rare. he already had a nick in his ear, something he wore with pride - and something that wilbur always felt guilty about whenever he looked at it. 

pain was a sign that you were in the heat of battle, that you were fighting, and that adrenaline was coursing through your veins. he would make wilbur spar with him again and again, until wilbur got so tired that phil had to carry him to bed. techno was always raring to go for more - but phil was too big to spar with him, and tommy was just a baby. techno was stuck with whacking dummies with his wooden training sword if wilbur didn’t want to fight.

for techno and wilbur’s sixth birthdays, phil gifted them both beautiful, gleaming iron swords. he handed over wilbur’s with a smile and ultimate gentleness - wilbur took his carefully, so not to scratch himself. but techno saw how phil looked at him as he forcibly snatched the blade from his hands, with such fervor that he nicked his finger with the side. phil had looked worried - scared. scared of a six year old piglin hybrid who had just been given a weapon of mass destruction.

the next day, phil went down to the training room to call techno up for dinner - and found the basement room a wreck. parts of the leather dummies were strewn everywhere, the cotton that had stuffed them covering the floor. even the stands that had held them up were hacked to shreds.

the only living thing in the room besides phil was techno, straddling a dummy that wasn’t quite disemboweled yet, crying out as he plunged his sword again and again into its chest. his white shirt was stuck to his arms and back with sweat, and his hair was falling out of its braid, trailing down his back.

phil had never seen such a fit of rage from the boy before - he stood in a shocked daze for a few seconds, watching the gruesome scene in front of him, before blinking, coming back to his senses. “ _ techno! _ ” he shouted, storming across the floor, scattering dummy parts as he went. if techno heard him, he didn’t act like it - he kept thrusting his sword through the dummy, grunting with the effort. the iron tip of the sword kept scraping on the cobbles underneath the dummy.

“techno,” phil said again, more angrily this time. he grabbed techno’s wrist as he brought the sword up to take another stab, squeezing his hand hard enough that he cried out in pain and dropped the blade with a clatter. techno tried to wrestle his way out of his father’s grasp, but phil hauled him off of the mutilated dummy and up to the steps, sitting him down and standing in front of him with a hand on his shoulder.

“what was that?” phil asked angrily. techno shrunk under his gaze - phil was never angry. he didn’t want him to be angry - especially not at  _ him. _

“i-i don’t know,” techno stammered as he caught his breath. he brought his hands up to his face, staring at them as they shook. his knuckles were bruised green and yellow. “i lost it. i lost control.”

phil’s face softened, and he crouched down in front of his son. “we can work on it,” he said softly. “we can work on controlling your powers. one day you’ll be the best fighter in the world.”

techno had relaxed after that, and let phil carry him like a baby upstairs and to an early bedtime. the next day, techno awoke good as new, the altercation from the day before forgotten - and with his itch for violence back tenfold.

he asked wilbur to spar with him - which wilbur accepted happily. unlike techno he hadn’t been able to try out his new iron sword. they ran all the way to the pavilion where they most frequently sparred, wilbur carrying his iron sword on his back. techno reached for his - and realized it was back on the training room floor, where phil had wrestled it from his grasp the night before.

“i need to go grab mine!” techno shouted, turning around and running back through the house. he figured phil wouldn’t let him spar with the blade after what happened yesterday, so he skirted around the kitchen, where he was no doubt making tommy breakfast -

-and nearly collided with his dad walking out of tommy’s room, the sleepy baby still drooling on his shoulder. phil frowned down at techno, glancing at the stairwell to the training room down the hall.

“i don’t want you sparring with that iron sword,” he said. “you already destroyed the training room. i don’t want you hurting your brother.”

techno heard the words  _ destroyed  _ and  _ hurting your brother _ like a punch to the gut. “but wilbur’s using his!” techno whined. “it’s not fair if i can’t use mine!”

“your fighting skill with a stone sword will be equally matched with wilbur’s iron sword,” phil reassured him. “come on, tommy and i will watch you two.”

techno had a gray cloud over him as he stormed back to the pavilion with phil, where wilbur was waiting. techno averted his eyes from his brother as he tugged his old stone sword out of the holster on the wall.

wilbur laughed. “couldn’t find your iron one? did you already lose it?” 

“shut up!” techno shouted as he started for his brother. he was already angry at phil for taking away his sword so early after he had gotten it - he wouldn just take it out on wilbur, he figured.

phil was right - wilbur had always been worse at battling than techno was, so his skill with an iron sword was on par with techno’s skill with a stone one. techno didn’t hold back, though, as they swung their blades in a sort of dance, wilbur’s cunning catching techno’s slow and somewhat clumsy swings. they seemed to be equally matched for a while - until a particularly heavy blow from wilbur left techno on the ground with his stone sword in pieces around him.

wilbur made a sound of surprise. “i beat him!” he cried, turning to look at phil for validation. “i beat techno!”

techno’s pale cheeks burned red with embarrassment - wilbur  _ never _ beat him. and he never would. techno pulled himself onto one knee, panting as he watched phil congratulate his son, beaming and clapping while still bouncing tommy on his knee.

rage thrummed through techno’s veins. wilbur wasn’t going to win.  _ only techno _ could win. he glared up at his brother, jealousy and envy and  _ fury _ running through him. head so clouded with emotion, he couldn’t think straight. his only thoughts were those of  _ BLOOD BLOOD MORE BLOOD NEED BLOOD BRUISES BRUISES MAKE HIM BLEED MAKE HIM CRY MAKE HIM SUFFER _ .

the next thing he knew, the cold hilt of his iron sword, summoned by his will, hit his palm, and he was on his feet and running for wilbur.

“ _ technoblade! _ ” phil shouted, eyes widening as he saw his son tackle his other, the sword tumbling out of wilbur’s hands. phil shot to his feet, tommy tumbling off of his lap as he broke out into a sprint towards the boys.

techno straddled wilbur the same way he had sat on top of that dummy the day before, mercilessly plunging it down. he couldn’t let the same thing happen to wilbur. he would never forgive himself. 

wilbur was screaming pitifully - distant cries of “ _ help! dad! daddy! help! he’s gonna kill me!” _ that seemed too far away. tommy was screaming, too, having been tossed onto the stone floor like an afterthought. phil wasn’t sure if he was screaming too - but his throat was hoarse and he supposed that yes, maybe he was screaming. he couldn’t tell anything apart from anything else - all he knew was  _ stop techno, protect wilbur. protect my son. _

techno held the sword over his head, baring his fangs down at his brother, ready to plunge the blade down into his skull. he couldn’t wait to see the blood on the cobblestones, the way his head would be smashed in in a horrible, gory mess. techno wanted to hear what wilbur’s last dying scream was like.

_ downdowndowndown _ went the sword, and for a moment everything stood still. wilbur’s eyes were empty pools of horror, techno’s mouth was open wide with a shout of triumph, tommy was frozen on the stone a few feet away, and phil was still in midair, diving for techno, desperate to save wilbur.

time resumed, and wilbur gave a cry, snapping his eyes shut as he saw the flash of silver inches from his face.

the cold, striking feeling of the sword never came. he slowly opened his eyes to see the blade hovering mere inches from his face, red slowly dripping down the sides from philza’s netherite grasp on it. his father’s blood dripped down onto his face like freckles. phil’s hand trembled as he held the sword away from wilbur’s face.

techno’s bloodred eyes were trained on wilbur’s face, his face screwed up in an expression of fury and desperation. he didn’t even seem to notice phil there. he kept trying to force the sword down, but phil kept it away from wilbur.

“techno,” phil said coldly. “enough.”

techno looked over at his father - the movement of his head was more of a twitch that a smooth movement. his nostrils flared and his chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to catch his breath.

“dad,” he whispered. his voice shook almost as much as his hands. “help. i can’t - i can’t stop.”

“it’s okay,” phil said immediately, softening his tone. he kept eye contact with techno, so not to distract him. “wilbur. move.”

he didn’t need to be told twice - wilbur scrambled out of the way and staggered to his feet, panting as he stared at techno and phil. 

phil released the sword and it plunged into the ground, with so much force that it split the mortar between the cobblestone bricks. techno slumped over and phil caught him, bringing him up to his chest.

“i’m sorry,” techno sobbed. “i lost control again. i-i’m sorry, i’m sorry-”

“shh,” phil whispered, beginning to rock him side to side like he did with tommy when he was fussy. “it’s alright. no one was hurt.” his hand was hurting like the nether, but he didn’t want to scare techno more than he already had. “listen. we’re going to work on it, like i said yesterday.  _ without _ the iron sword. you can get it back for your seventh birthday.”

techno nodded into his chest, clutching onto his shirt. “yes, yes, okay,” he gasped. “okay. that’s - okay. please, i don’t wanna do that again.”

“you’re not,” phil assured him, leaning down to press a kiss onto his temple. “no one will ever hurt you - and you will never hurt anyone else.”


End file.
